The Figaro Murders by Laura Lebow Page A

further. I clung to the latch as the right window swung out to the courtyard, taking me with it. My heart pounded as I looked down at the stones. If the knob broke I would share the boy’s fate. I kicked again at the drape, then again. Pain shot through my shoulder as I struggled to keep the heavy window from dragging me farther. The pit of my stomach was empty and cold. I took a deep breath and kicked my foot again, as hard as I could. Mercifully, the fabric released me from its grasp. I jerked myself back from the window, pulled it shut, and secured the knob.
    I turned around and slumped on the sill, my heart pounding. I closed my eyes and tried to regulate my breathing. After a few moments I climbed off the sill and looked around the room. Everything seemed exactly as it had been when I left here yesterday. The little Harlequin figurine stared at me from the table near the sofa. The rows of books sat silently on their shelves. I shook my head. It was clear that I would find no help with my inquiry here.
    I turned to check that the windows were tightly latched and straightened the drape that had twisted around my foot. A bright patch at the bottom near the floor caught my eye. I leaned over to examine the spot. It was not a part of the drape, but a piece of ribbon caught in the velvet. I pulled it out. It was about a foot long, white, with a delicate floral pattern embroidered in gold thread—the kind of ribbon used to decorate a lady’s bonnet. How long had it been lodged in the folds of the drape? To whom did it belong? Had Florian Auerstein brought it here, or had his murderer inadvertently dropped it?
    â€œBut madame—” I started as a voice came from the hallway. A moment later, the door opened.
    â€œI must see it for myself,” a warm, melodious voice said. I stuffed the ribbon into the pocket of my breeches and quickly closed the drapes.
    *   *   *
    â€œBut madame, you shouldn’t.” I recognized Marianne Haiml’s voice as she entered the room, followed by another woman of the same petite, slender build. “It will only upset you. Oh! It is so dark in here. Let me open the drapes.” Marianne headed toward where I stood in the shadows. I cleared my throat and stepped forward.
    Marianne screamed. “Who is there?” She ran to the drapes and yanked them open. Sunlight filled the room. “Signor Da Ponte? What are you doing here?”
    I could not answer her, because my eyes were fixed on her companion, who remained standing at the door. My heart twisted as I stared at her. She was dressed in white, as she had been last night. Today, her auburn hair was gathered into a thick braid. Her skin was still pale, and she looked as though she had been crying.
    She crossed the room to me. “Are you the Abbé Da Ponte?” she asked, taking my hand. I could not force my lips to form words, but I was able to make my head nod. “I am so happy to meet you. I am Caroline Gabler.”
    Her hand felt smooth and small in mine. I stared into her eyes, which were a soft jade green. “I am looking forward to our lessons,” she said.
    I bowed over our clasped hands as my tongue finally untangled itself. “I am honored, Your Excellency,” I managed to say. She smelled like lavender.
    She continued to hold my hand as she smiled at me. “Please, you must not be so formal with me. I will be your student.”
    To my dismay, I found myself bowing once more. Idiot! Stop bobbing like that children’s toy, that silly clown in the windup box. My cheeks grew hot with embarrassment as she gently pulled her hand away.
    â€œLessons?” Marianne asked, looking at me. “I don’t understand.”
    â€œYes,” the baroness answered. “I haven’t had time to tell you, Marianne. It all happened so quickly. My husband has wished to hire a poetry master for me for a while now. He had heard that the abbé was the best poet